seven,
eight hundred dollars, sometimes he got cheated out of that. Now, a
kid gets fifteen wins, they got him fighting for a title.
But not his kid, he thinks.
It isn’t something he’ll have to tell him, it’s
something he already understands. Nick has spent enough time in
fifty-cent hotel rooms for them both.
He looks at Emily again, and sees his son in her
face. Her relatives didn’t want her married to somebody who was
beat up all the time, so he gave up fighting. They were college
people, connected to the city, and after they were engaged, her
father got him a job in the police garage. Nick could always fix
engines.
He didn’t run, he didn’t go near the gym. And
then one Sunday afternoon at Emily’s house, her mother makes a nice
chicken, and who walks in the front door but Slappy Grazano.
Nick leans back into his pillow and sees it happen
again. He smiles.
Slappy looks at the table and then all the people
sitting around it in their church clothes and napkins; this is a man
who does not understand the uses of a fork. Not which fork to use,
but why use them at all.
"So, Nick," he says, "we got you a
fight."
Nick says, "Slappy, I don’t want no more
fights."
"One more, Nick. Somebody you already beat."
"I can’t fight nobody," Nick says, "I’m
not in shape."
Slappy says, "For this guy, you don’t need to
be in shape. Come on, Steve wants to see you."
Nick remembers the table getting so quiet he could
hear the icebox running in the kitchen. He doesn’t want trouble
with Steve Grazano, so he stands up and puts two chicken legs in the
pockets of his jacket and goes with him.
He remembers the look on Emily’s face.
Yes, she’s prettier now.
At Steve’s place he says the same thing: "I
can’t light nobody, Mr. Grazano, I’m not in shape."
But in the end, he’s got to do it anyway, and
before he leaves Steve says, "By the way, you got another one of
them chicken legs?"
So he gets his dinner too.
The fight itself.
He remembers a heaviness that was never there before
settling over him in the fourth round. He can see himself getting
tired, beginning to hold on to the kid. Del Conners is refereeing,
and he keeps slapping Nick’s gloves off when he holds, telling him
to fight, taking points. People booing; Nick never got booed in his
life.
Finally, in the seventh round, Del pries him off the
kid and says, "Nick, you don’t stop hugging this nigger, I’ll
stop the fight. I mean it."
And the kid says, "Nigger?"
And Nick says, "I don’t give a shit."
Del says, "I mean it, Nick."
Nick says, "So do I," and Del Conners stops
it right there and raises the kid’s hand.
"Who you calling nigger?" the kid says,
allowing his hand to be raised.
Del hid from him for two years, thinking he was mad.
Nick lies in bed, wondering why it makes him smile
now to think of the things that hurt him then.
He thinks it has something to do with the second half
of his life—that at the end, the only way dying can make sense is
if you feel grateful enough for what came before. He remembers the
nuns in the hospital in Atlantic City had a different idea. He was
there almost half a year when he was, what, eight years old? Nine?
Harry’s age. He imagines leaving Harry in a hospital for half a
year.
One of the nuns, an old woman with pale lips whose
hands shook as she reached for the thermometer, told him one night
that when he was sick enough he would long to go back home to God.
"It’s what sickness is for," she said.
And she was dead before he left the hospital.
He pictures her standing beside his bed, the shadow
that moves across the wall as her hand reaches through the pale light
for the thermometer. And then suddenly he is remembering the white
kids giving up their shoes in the street.
He wonders if they will
think of that someday and smile. He doubts that it will ever make
Phillip Flood smile. He puts himself in his place, imagining Harry
coming home without his shoes. Half an hour later, knowing he
eight hundred dollars, sometimes he got cheated out of that. Now, a
kid gets fifteen wins, they got him fighting for a title.
But not his kid, he thinks.
It isn’t something he’ll have to tell him, it’s
something he already understands. Nick has spent enough time in
fifty-cent hotel rooms for them both.
He looks at Emily again, and sees his son in her
face. Her relatives didn’t want her married to somebody who was
beat up all the time, so he gave up fighting. They were college
people, connected to the city, and after they were engaged, her
father got him a job in the police garage. Nick could always fix
engines.
He didn’t run, he didn’t go near the gym. And
then one Sunday afternoon at Emily’s house, her mother makes a nice
chicken, and who walks in the front door but Slappy Grazano.
Nick leans back into his pillow and sees it happen
again. He smiles.
Slappy looks at the table and then all the people
sitting around it in their church clothes and napkins; this is a man
who does not understand the uses of a fork. Not which fork to use,
but why use them at all.
"So, Nick," he says, "we got you a
fight."
Nick says, "Slappy, I don’t want no more
fights."
"One more, Nick. Somebody you already beat."
"I can’t fight nobody," Nick says, "I’m
not in shape."
Slappy says, "For this guy, you don’t need to
be in shape. Come on, Steve wants to see you."
Nick remembers the table getting so quiet he could
hear the icebox running in the kitchen. He doesn’t want trouble
with Steve Grazano, so he stands up and puts two chicken legs in the
pockets of his jacket and goes with him.
He remembers the look on Emily’s face.
Yes, she’s prettier now.
At Steve’s place he says the same thing: "I
can’t light nobody, Mr. Grazano, I’m not in shape."
But in the end, he’s got to do it anyway, and
before he leaves Steve says, "By the way, you got another one of
them chicken legs?"
So he gets his dinner too.
The fight itself.
He remembers a heaviness that was never there before
settling over him in the fourth round. He can see himself getting
tired, beginning to hold on to the kid. Del Conners is refereeing,
and he keeps slapping Nick’s gloves off when he holds, telling him
to fight, taking points. People booing; Nick never got booed in his
life.
Finally, in the seventh round, Del pries him off the
kid and says, "Nick, you don’t stop hugging this nigger, I’ll
stop the fight. I mean it."
And the kid says, "Nigger?"
And Nick says, "I don’t give a shit."
Del says, "I mean it, Nick."
Nick says, "So do I," and Del Conners stops
it right there and raises the kid’s hand.
"Who you calling nigger?" the kid says,
allowing his hand to be raised.
Del hid from him for two years, thinking he was mad.
Nick lies in bed, wondering why it makes him smile
now to think of the things that hurt him then.
He thinks it has something to do with the second half
of his life—that at the end, the only way dying can make sense is
if you feel grateful enough for what came before. He remembers the
nuns in the hospital in Atlantic City had a different idea. He was
there almost half a year when he was, what, eight years old? Nine?
Harry’s age. He imagines leaving Harry in a hospital for half a
year.
One of the nuns, an old woman with pale lips whose
hands shook as she reached for the thermometer, told him one night
that when he was sick enough he would long to go back home to God.
"It’s what sickness is for," she said.
And she was dead before he left the hospital.
He pictures her standing beside his bed, the shadow
that moves across the wall as her hand reaches through the pale light
for the thermometer. And then suddenly he is remembering the white
kids giving up their shoes in the street.
He wonders if they will
think of that someday and smile. He doubts that it will ever make
Phillip Flood smile. He puts himself in his place, imagining Harry
coming home without his shoes. Half an hour later, knowing he
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